What do they think has happened, the old fools,
To make them like this? Do they somehow suppose
It's more grown-up when your mouth hangs open and drools,
And you keep on pissing yourself, and can't remember
Who called this morning? Or that, if they only chose,
They could alter things back to when they danced all night,
Or went to their wedding, or sloped arms some September?
Or do they fancy there's really been no change,
And they've always behaved as if they were crippled or tight,
Or sat through days of thin continuous dreaming
Watching the light move? If they don't (and they can't), it's strange;
Why aren't they screaming?
At death you break up: the bits that were you
Start speeding away from each other for ever
With no one to see. It's only oblivion, true:
We had it before, but then it was going to end,
And was all the time merging with a unique endeavour
To bring to bloom the million-petalled flower
Of being here. Next time you can't pretend
There'll be anything else. And these are the first signs:
Not knowing how, not hearing who, the power
Of choosing gone. Their looks show that they're for it:
Ash hair, toad hands, prune face dried into lines -
How can they ignore it?
Perhaps being old is having lighted rooms
Inside your head, and people in them, acting
People you know, yet can't quite name; each looms
Like a deep loss restored, from known doors turning,
Setting down a lamp, smiling from a stair, extracting
A known book from the shelves; or sometimes only
The rooms themselves, chairs and a fire burning,
The blown bush at the window, or the sun's
Faint friendliness on the wall some lonely
Rain-ceased midsummer evening. That is where they live:
Not here and now, but where all happened once.
This is why they give
An air of baffled absence, trying to be there
Yet being here. For the rooms grow farther, leaving
Incompetent cold, the constant wear and tear
Of taken breath, and them crouching below
Extinction's alp, the old fools, never perceiving
How near it is. This must be what keeps them quiet:
The peak that stays in view wherever we go
For them is rising ground. Can they never tell
What is dragging them back, and how it will end? Not at night?
Not when the strangers come? Never, throughout
The whole hideous inverted childhood? Well,
We shall find out.

The last two poems brought to mind this one. As in some of his other
poems, Larkin starts brashly, perhaps even offensively. But by the time
he is done we are given an intimate view of what it must be like to
"have lighted rooms / Inside your head" and "trying to be there / Yet
being here." The analogy of death with a "peak" is quite unusual (I am
sure I have never seen it before) and works perfectly with "the constant
wear and tear / Of taken breath." The last line is pure Larkin. It is
rather a long poem, but we are in good hands. Do read it aloud.
--
radhika.

As one ages one remembers both the good days and the bad. One tends to wish to remember the good only. Yet we humans need to remember the hard difficult lessons of life if we are to adapt to the ever changing planet we call home. I don't the the poem is so much about waiting to die as it is fixated on how to enjoy the past memories while living in the "now". Yes some oldsters get grumpy- pining for their lost youth. But forward thinking and living in the moment keeps one's brain young.

It is not the brashness of the poem that troubled me, but the assumption that life only exists where we are, that the golden age is childhood when we don't have a care, or youth when we are full of vigor, ideals, dreams, and we are invincible and indestructible. Maybe life is only real when we are in love, when we are on our honeymoon or hold our first baby in our arms. All of these are stages of life, as is getting older. That, too, is life; and unless one has been there one cannot know the joy of holding a new granddaughter, or talking with the neighbor on the block, or approaching anyone without the fear of rejection we felt when we were young. And when we get older yet? Are we still human? When our senses fail and we no longer seem to be with it? That, too, is life and living, no less that the infant in her mother's arms, or the young woman in her lover's embrace. "As you are now, so once was I; as I am now, so must you be..." That's life!

Larkin seemed fascinated in his poetry with the space we occupy after death.

This poem put me in mind of his Aubade, in which he turns these musings in on himself. He retains this symbolism of the peak/alp 'An only life can take so long to climb', but to my mind Aubade is a far more daunting poem because it personalises the fear and dread of 'The anaesthetic from which none come round'.

An aubade (I'm sure many of you know this anyway) is a poem/song about lovers parting at dawn, make of that what you will.

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en we are full of vigor, ideals, dreams, and we are invincible and indestructible. Maybe life is only real when we are in love, when we are on our honeymoon or hold our first baby in our arms. All of these are stages of life, as is getting older. That, too, is life; and unless one has been there one cannot know the joy of holding a new granddaughter, or talking with the neighbor on the block, or appr

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hbor on the block, or approaching anyone without the fear of rejection we felt when we were young. And when we get older yet? Are we still human? When our senses fail and we no longer seem to be with it? That, too, is life and living, no less that the infant in her mother's arms, or the young woman in her lover's embrace. "As you are now, so once was I; as I am now, so must you be..." That's life!

This poem put me in mind of his Aubade, in which he turns these musings in on himself. He retains this symbolism of the peak/alp 'An only life can take so long to climb', but to my mind Aubade is a far more daunting poem because it personalises the fear and dread of 'The anaesthetic from which none come round'.

An aubade (I'm sure many of you know this anyway) is a poem/song about lovers parting at dawn, make of that what you will.

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Larkin was a miserable old bugger in many ways, but from that dour character came some beautiful poetry, as well as the chilling ones like this. He seems to argue that it is all futile, all a waste of breath, 'a tale told by an idiot', yet by creating things like Whitsun Weddings or An Arundel Tomb, with their breathtaking passages, he is implicitly arguing that there is much more to it.

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